By Any Other Name
by your candy perfume girl
Summary: You don't love Leopold, but the way that he fervently whispers your predecessor's name against your skin like a hushed prayer still cuts through your heart like a knife. A night during the first year of Regina and Leopold's marriage. Warning: rape.


**Disclaimer** — _Once Upon a Time_ is the property of ABC and Horowitz/Kitsis. I make no profit, monetary or otherwise, from the writing of this story.

**Author**'**s Note** — This story is based on a bit of personal canon that I posted for Regina on Tumblr, which you can read at the-silence-in-between. tumblr. com/ post/ 20999330071/ personal-canon-a-big-part-of-the-reason-why-regina (remove the spaces). My goal here was to take a deeper look into Regina and Leopold's marriage and capture some of the horror that Regina likely experienced as the king's wife, since the canon at present has not really addressed any of those issues. If you are sensitive to frank portrayals of rape, you might not want to read this.

* * *

It's close to midnight when you hear it, that sound that you dread above all others: the unmistakable groan of your antechamber's heavy wooden doors being pried open and parted. The noise resounds sharply against the unforgiving stone walls and floor, reaching your ears with the same violent tone as the clarion call of your kingdom's war trumpets. Your eyes, which just moments before had been listlessly studying your tired reflection as you brushed your hair before bed, dart anxiously to your bedchamber door. _It must be one of the guards_, you nervously reassure yourself, even as your heart races and fear sinks into the pit of your stomach; _he was here just two nights ago_.

But then, in the reflection of your mirror, you see your husband burst through the doors behind you, stumbling across the room to where you are seated, and you cannot be surprised, not really, because there has never been any space for hope in your life. "Ah, good," Leopold smiles at you, carelessly sweeping your hair from your neck and leaving a series of hot, slobbery kisses against your pulse point. You know even before he exhales that his breath will reek of liquor. "You're still awake."

His hands trail heavily over your breasts, squeezing them crudely, and you cannot help but flinch from his touch. "Please, Leopold," you beseech, "not tonight; I'm so tired." You do not mention that the soreness from your last encounter has not yet faded away, though the blood finally has.

"Come now, my dear," he chuckles, and you rage silently at the way that he always refuses to say your name. His fingers curl around your wrist, squeezing harder than necessary as he tugs you from your chair. You stumble slightly as he pulls you flush against his body, his arms curling around your torso like a boa constrictor. "Your king has made a request, and you know that I ask so very little of you."

All that you want in this moment is to thrust your knee up between his thighs, to scream and shout until he understands that his proposal cost you _everything_, but you can't; you just swallow all of your rage as you brace yourself for what is to follow. After all, your husband is the king, and your mother is a power-hungry witch. These terrible nights have never really held any choice for you.

"There's a good girl," he murmurs, his words slightly slurred, before inexpertly attempting to remove your heavy winter nightgown. He tries to yank it over your head, but your arms get caught inside and, for one agonizing moment, are contorted into an intensely painful position. He eventually figures out how to maneuver your lingerie, haphazardly throwing the pale blue gown onto the floor behind him, and you roll your aching shoulders in relief. The comfort is fleeting, however, because your husband quickly begins to paw desperately at your undergarments, and within a few moments you're naked, his brown eyes sweeping hungrily over your shivering form. Without another word, Leopold begins to tug at his own clothing, and you quickly turn to crawl into your bed. You may have reluctantly resigned yourself to these repulsive encounters, but that doesn't mean that you wish to view his nakedness if you can avoid it.

You avert your eyes as he drunkenly weaves over to your bedside and snuffs out the torch there, plunging the room into near darkness. It's a tiny bit of relief, not having to look at him as he moves above you, but you still feel a tiny spark of anger flare up in your chest at the way that he refuses to acknowledge that it's your body trapped beneath his. None of this would be quite so awful, you think, if he would just acknowledge you as a _person_.

This has been going on long enough, though, for you to know that this will never happen. He proves you correct in the next instant as he blindly climbs atop you, his knee bearing his full weight onto your leg. Though you cry out sharply, he does not react, and before you have a chance to try to soothe your bruised flesh, his body sinks heavily onto yours, pinning you to the bed. You feel his mouth against your breast, closing around your nipple, and your stomach heaves like you're about to be sick.

Then he shifts, his hands forcing your thighs apart, and your muscles automatically tense with the knowledge of what is about to transpire. You try to breathe evenly, try to relax so that it won't hurt as much, but you don't want _this_; you don't want _him_; all that you want is to wake up in _your_ bed in _your_ house and run outside to find Daniel in the stables, waiting for you with a brilliant smile and a soft kiss and...

He pushes inside of you with a violent thrust, as if he were trying to run you through. You squeeze your eyes shut against the sting of forming tears and tell yourself not to cry, not to let him win, but it just hurts _so_ much. His flesh rubbing against yours is like sandpaper, and though you try so hard to keep it all in, to bottle up all your pain and transform it into something useful, the tiny squeak of a choked sob forces its way through your tight throat. A bead of sweat plummets from his chin, landing on your lower lip, and you wish wholeheartedly that you were dead.

You wonder, suddenly, what these nights would have been like if Daniel were still alive, if you two had managed to escape with your happily ever after still intact. There never was an opportunity for you and Daniel to be intimate like this, and now, thanks to your husband, you've lost all desire to envision such a thing. You can still remember the sweet sensation of his lips caressing yours, though, and the warmth of his hands as they cradled your face, so you squeeze your eyes shut even tighter and try to disappear from here, try to leave this place for somewhere else, where true love always wins in the end...

Then Leopold's pelvis dashes painfully against your own, jerking your body so hard that the crown of your head collides with your headboard. The memory of Daniel's warm, comforting embrace is instantly replaced by the reality of Leopold's torso sliding against yours. With a groan, your husband buries his face in the crook of your shoulder, leaving little nibbling kisses up your neck, and you're certain that no matter how many baths you take, you will never be clean again. "Emma," he moans, his hot breath rolling across your skin like a heavy fog. The pungent stench of alcohol fills your nostrils. "_Emma_."

So many times before, you've sworn that the tears on your cheeks are the last that you'll ever shed; you want so desperately to keep that oath now, to be beyond all this, but a sob still manages to push past your lips as the tears begin to stream freely down your face. You don't love Leopold, and you never will, but the way that he fervently whispers your predecessor's name against your skin like a hushed prayer still cuts through your heart like a knife. It's just one more reminder of the fact that you are unlovable, that there is something about you that makes others want to hurt you. That's what your husband did when he proposed to you, knowing that he could never love you the way that he loved this woman that he imagines in your place — he willingly doomed you to a life of misery the moment he lowered himself onto one knee. And now, on these terrible nights when he finds himself lacking, he reminds you of just how little he cares for your happiness, for your feelings and self-worth, by using your body for his own pleasure.

He will never view you as his wife, as his partner, as another human being capable of feeling joy and love and unbearable pain, not as long as her ghost still lingers. To the king, you are not a person; you are a possession. You are a toy with which to be played, to be used and abused before being tossed unceremoniously back into the toy chest until the whim strikes him again.

This knowledge, more than anything, fills you with unrelenting despair, because it means that there will be no happy ending for you. There will be no opportunity to move on and find love after Daniel. There will only be _this_ until death finally claims one of you.

Tears coat your cheeks now, and your chest heaves with the force of your sobs. Leopold, however, either does not notice or does not care; his hips slap against your thighs in quick succession now, continually delivering a sharp sting to your tender flesh, and through all the physical and emotional torment, you feel the familiar flame of hatred flare up in your chest. More than anything, you wish that you could make this man suffer. Your greatest desire is to stand victorious over his broken, weeping form. You want him to beg and plead for mercy, just as you have done.

You think that you might actually kill him if you had the means, and the knowledge of how far your husband and his wretched daughter have dragged you down makes you hate him even more.

Leopold lasts only a few more thrusts before toppling over the edge. "Emma!" he cries, his voice echoing against your vaulted ceilings as he spills his seed inside of you. Briefly, you spare a thought to hope that there is no one lingering outside the room to hear your humiliation. Once finished, he collapses on top of you and nuzzles your breast with a contented sigh. His body weighs down heavily against yours, compressing your chest and making breathing difficult, and you struggle slightly in your discomfort.

Your movements must jar him, because he jerks his head up suddenly, peering at you for a long moment in the dim moonlight. Without warning, he pulls away from you, leaving your sweat-soaked body to the mercy of the winter night's chilly air. After finally finding his dressing gown amidst your own clothes on the floor, he throws it over his head and hastily scurries out of the room, leaving you behind like a nightmare in morning's light.

It's finally over, but now everything _hurts_. You roll onto your side as gingerly as possible, protectively curling in on yourself, but a sharp pain sears between your legs, making you cry out. It feels like he tore something; it wouldn't be the first time. His sweat still coats your skin, making your body slippery, and something warm and sticky that you don't want to think about trickles down your inner thigh. Even after he's gone, he's still _everywhere_, still marking your body as his.

On that terrible day when the magnitude of the forces conspiring to control your life became clear to you, you swore to yourself that you would be victorious in the end, that you would shed no more tears and do whatever was necessary to win back control of your life. It seemed such an easy vow at the time, dressed up as the queen-to-be with nothing left to lose, but it finally hits you now, what you're up against. Though you are now a wife and mother, and though the law says that you are a woman, you are, in reality, still very much that little girl bound high above the earth, begging with what little breath you have left to be released. Your husband and your mother are both far older than you, they're stronger than you, and they hold all of the power securely in their hands. You can grasp at it all that you want, but it will always be just beyond your reach. In the end, you are little more than a child struggling against two people who have been playing this game since before you were born.

You are _theirs_. Your _body_ is theirs.

The only thing that they cannot take — not unless you let them — is your mind, your spirit. That's why you must dry these useless tears at once; they will only drag you down deeper into despair and deliver your soul to them. No more crying: this is your one rule, and you've held to it admirably all this time.

Tonight, though, everything is just too much, and you hug your knees tighter as you give yourself over to the sobs. Only for tonight, you will make an exception to your rule.

* * *

Three weeks later, your husband makes his return to your bedchamber, only this time he doesn't arrive quite as late, and his eyes are no longer glassy. He barely looks at you as he removes his robes, folding them neatly and laying them atop your vanity. You're already naked, tucked beneath your luxurious silk sheets and waiting for this night to be over. This monthly ritual is no better than those random, drunken encounters to which you are normally subjected, and in the end, the exercise is always fruitless; all these months later, and your womb remains as empty as ever. All these months later, and you're still not certain if this is a relief.

Leopold approaches your bedside, reaching out to first extinguish the torch, when something inside of you snaps. You grab his wrist, and when he turns to look at you, his dark eyes are full of surprise and disbelief.

"Don't," you say, and you hate how the word comes out as a plea instead of a command. "If you're going to demand this of me, then at least have the courtesy to look at me as you take it."

He stares at you for the longest time, his brow furrowed and mouth slightly agape, as though he's never seen you before. His arm remains outstretched, the douter clenched tight in his fist.

And then he snuffs out the light.

* * *

It's hard to believe that you didn't see it the moment you spotted them walking up the pathway. Looking now at this blonde stranger's sheepish smile and apologetic hazel eyes, the resemblance to your little boy is uncanny. You suck in a sharp breath as anxiety coils around your lungs. This is the moment you have feared above all others since the moment that you first took your son into your arms; everyone eventually leaves you, after all, and here is your child's means of escape.

The other woman — because whoever she is, she is _not_ Henry's mother — stares expectantly at you, waiting to be ushered into your home and presented with the glass of apple cider that you graciously promised her. You extend your hand first, though, eager to find out with whom, exactly, you are dealing.

"Forgive me for being so rude," you smile, taking her hand in yours. "My name is Regina Mills."

The woman's handshake, you note with trepidation, is firm and brisk. "I'm Emma — Emma Swan."

The effect of that one word, even all these years later, is instantaneous. For a moment, everything disappears into blackness as you feel unforgiving fingers digging into your hips, breathe in the acrid scent of whisky, taste the blood in your mouth from where you bit your lip to keep from screaming. _He_'_s dead_, you try to tell yourself, _he can't hurt you anymore_, but the air around you suddenly has weight; the sky is coming down, threatening to crush you, like _him_.

And as you look back at this woman whose name you refuse to say, this woman who returns your gaze with your son's eyes, you realize that your carefully crafted life is about to shatter.


End file.
